


Returns and Reunions

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Mycroft Holmes, Gen, Major Character Injury, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, No Mary Morstan, Post-Reichenbach, Recovery, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-03 12:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12748251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: Under a curtain of hair a lip twisted into a smile, then a thin line of bloodied spittle slipped from Sherlock’s mouth to the floor.  Mycroft’s own smile fell.  “Sherlock?” The detective made a sound that was more a groan than a word and rocked forwards, shoulders taking the full weight of his body as his knees buckled.An alternate beginning to The Empty Hearse, and a very different reunion at Baker Street





	1. Return

“So, my friend: now it’s just you and me.” Mycroft took his feet off the stool and stood, enjoying the chance to stretch his frame after supervising the interrogation for over an hour. “You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.” Up close, Sherlock looked even worse: the slumping that Mycroft had taken for an act appeared to be all the man was capable of. Regardless, he reached down and grabbed a handful of matted curls and whispered, “Now listen to me. There’s an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear.” Straightening up in triumph-- savouring the moment of things going right after so much worry and planning-- Mycroft allowed himself a rare smile. “Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

Under a curtain of hair a just visible lip twisted into a smile, then a thin line of bloodied spittle slipped from Sherlock’s mouth to the floor.

Mycroft’s own smile fell. “Sherlock?”

The detective made a sound that was more a groan than a word and rocked forwards, shoulders taking the full weight of his body as his knees buckled. Mycroft grabbed his brother under an armpit, trying to prevent him from dislocating his shoulders. Whatever reserves Sherlock had called on to fuel his deductions seemed to have been exhausted. 

This was, Mycroft admitted, not quite expected, despite how long Sherlock had been held captive. It was one minute until his diversion, perhaps two, he couldn’t see his watch while supporting his brother. That gave him thirty seconds to start getting out of this room before the place went straight to hell. He twisted Sherlock out of the stress position he’d been hanging in, then moved quickly to release the chains from the wall and undo the shackles.

Sherlock slumped to the ground as soon as he was released, groaning softly as the numbness in his hands started to turn to painful pins and needles. 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft grunted as he hauled upwards, settling under his brother’s right arm and supporting the other man’s weight. “Sherlock, I need you to walk with me. This will be messy if we have to stretcher you out.” Messy being spectacular euphemism for abandoning the distraction and the team simply coming in shooting. There was a slight lightening of the weight on his shoulder which he took as a sign his brother was at least willing to try. There was a dull thump that shook the building and shouting erupted in the hallway. 

Drawing his gun in his right hand, Mycroft shuffled them both towards the doorway, already perspiring under his coat. Legwork. How tedious, he thought to himself. The hallway was already empty; it was all going according to plan.

By the time they reached the end of the long entry tunnel he was almost overwhelmed by the scent of sweat, urine and a deeper odor of decay. There was a sudden clatter of boots in the hallway behind and he awkwardly half turned and fired, a cry and a thud confirmed the bullet had hit home. That ability, at least, hadn’t gone soft behind a desk.

There was another dull thud. The majority of the complex would be on fire by now. He hauled Sherlock out through a hatch and was met by the two special forces he’d hand picked for the little operation. That was the best thing about the special forces: in a situation like this they didn’t wait to be told what to do but simply reached out and took Sherlock between them, moving quickly towards the perimeter. Their helicopter lifted off just a few minutes later, quickly climbing above the smoke and whisking them west. 

The odor from earlier remained. Sherlock. The signs of prolonged torture were clear: bruises layered on bruises, a rattling in his lungs from aspirated water and perhaps vomit as well, bruising around his kidneys, torn fingernails, matted hair, bleeding and weeping wounds on his back, cigarette burns, eyes red and raw from sleep deprivation... It was all there, right down to his fungal toenails.

They stopped in Germany, where Sherlock roused from his torpor long enough to insult two doctors and three nurses, fight off a blood pressure cuff, pull out an iv line and demand to leave immediately. To see _his_ doctor. To go home.

This called for psychologists and therapists and intravenous medication and clean white walls smelling of antiseptic. Instead, Mycroft remembered a time when he, too, had demanded to go home. To wash the blood off his hands in his own sink and crawl into his own bed and if he wanted to sleep with every light on in the house it wasn’t going to be anyone else’s business. Legwork. What had it ever got him but a gammy knee that sometimes necessitated a walking stick disguised as an umbrella? Thank goodness his other skills had been appropriately prized and he’d quickly risen above anything so base.

So, against his better judgement, he’d had Sherlock slipped some sleeping medication to allow a proper examination and then bundled him onto a flight back to London.

Mycroft slept on the plane: he dreamt that the pipe swing into his brother’s face before he could voice an objection, tearing skin and smashing bone. He dreamt of Sherlock shot dead in a shallow ditch somewhere he could never find, changeable eyes open and still. He dreamt of a missed airbag and brains dashed on the pavement outside Bart’s, despite all their planning.

They touched down at London City with a bump that woke both brothers. Sherlock blinked owlishly, then scowled when he realized what had happened. 

“Take me home, Mycroft.”

Sherlock was seriously unwell, and who knew the state of his mind, but the German doctors had grudgingly admitted that with medication and daily check-ups it could be possible for him to be monitored out of hospital. Possible, perhaps, but certainly not advisable. “You need…”

“I _need_ to go home.” There was surprising strength in the interjection, given the detective looked like he could barely keep his head from lolling on the pillow, “I need to see John!”

And there it was: the heart of the matter, so to speak. Mycroft splayed his fingers on his knee and absently realized he hadn’t changed his clothes. “John isn’t there, Sherlock.”

“What do you mean? Of course he is.” There was clearly no other possible reality in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

Oh, brother mine. “It’s been _two years_ , Sherlock. He moved out over eighteen months ago and keeps a bedsit in Hoxton. He was out of work for nearly a year, but now picks up shifts at a local clinic and is considering taking a position at Leeds General Infirmary-- I believe Mr. Stamford has been pulling strings for him.”

Sherlock was frowning as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Leave London?” Processing the information took several seconds, then the frown turned into something more like fury as he hissed, “You were supposed to look after him!”

“I did, Sherlock.”

“Then why is he poor and considering leaving the city?” A worse thought occurred, “I’ll bet you’ve let his limp come back!”

It had, too. Mycroft drew himself up as best as he could in the small plane and hissed back, “Don’t you _ever_ accuse me of not doing what I can. Ever! I have monitored him, manipulated things so he doesn’t get evicted or released from the clinic even as spent more time at your grave then at work, and told any number of lies as I passed on a sum of money disguised as a legacy from your estate. It’s been two years: he’s simply moved on.” There wasn’t a sign of comprehension on the other man’s face. Taking a slow breath to calm himself, he asked, “Do you really not understand, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked, then, more calmly, repeated the same words he’d said when faced by Irene Adler, “Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.”

Mycroft’s jaw twitched in dismay as he regarded his brother and thought: you did love, once, in that purest way that children do. Ignoring the tremor in his brother’s hand, he acquiesced, “Fine. Baker Street.”

It took the driver’s help to get Sherlock down the stairs and into the waiting car. Mycroft was also feeling the effects of a month of increasingly frantic searching culminating in the questionable decision to go into the field himself He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a full night’s sleep, not that the opportunity presented itself regularly at the best of times, and the coffee and pastry in Germany was a long time ago. By the time they were both settled into the vehicle Mycroft was seriously questioning his judgement.

It was past six o’clock in the morning and the streets were just beginning to fill with early commuters and shift workers, although traffic was still sparse. As they passed through Soho and started to approach Baker Street, Sherlock gradually straightened and looked out the window with undisguised interest. The city had changed in two years: crossrail excavations and underground station upgrades were visible as they drove along. Storefronts opened and closed. New eco-friendly buses trundled along beside them.

When they pulled up in front of 221B, Mycroft was surprised to find a lump in his own throat. Sherlock batted away helping hands and hauled himself up to the front door-- imperiously holding out a hand until a key was dropped in it. The front hallway was dark. Mycroft’s phone chimed and he consulted it, then announced, “Anthea informs us Mrs. Hudson is staying with her sister this weekend.”

Sherlock gave an impatient nod and made his way up the stairs, halting on the landing to briefly catch his breath, before continuing and pushing open the door to the front room.

There was a scent of lemon polish and a stuffiness to the air that spoke of it receiving some care despite being shut away. There was no clear trace that John had lived there on his own for some months: Sherlock’s papers were still strewn across the desk. Only the angle of John’s chair and an empty space on the bookshelves was a suggestion of that time. 

The driver entered as well, carrying Mycroft’s own travelling suitcase, two large bags from Fortnum & Mason’s, and an attache case that clearly contained a laptop. “Anything else, sir?”

Mycroft pointed towards the sofa, indicating that the bags could be placed there. “No, that will be fine.” He could follow-up with Anthea later, but was two days behind on world affairs and feeling sorely disconnected.

And then they were alone. Sherlock hobbled across the room and lowered himself into his chair with a groan. As Mycroft continued to stand by the door, Sherlock said, “Don’t you have a war to start somewhere?”

“I think I came close enough to starting one earlier, thank you very much. I’ll have some ruffled feathers to smooth over in Serbia, once they figure out what happened.” Ignoring Sherlock, he set about carrying the food into the kitchen, pleasantly surprised to find it free of dust. The fridge wasn’t plugged in, which Mycroft rectified, and the time on the microwave was wrong. The tap disgorged a few seconds of slightly rusty water before running clear. He set about filling the kettle and making tea while putting the groceries away. Mostly ready to eat stuff he recognized as his favourites, with a couple of Sherlock’s thrown in as well. Good help, indeed. He’d have to make sure Anthea got a sizeable bonus this Christmas.

When the tea was ready he carried two cups into the front room and found Sherlock staring absently at a spot on the carpet. “It will take two to three days to bring you back to life. Anthea is ready to coordinate it for me.” In truth, he’d written the masthead for The Times himself: “Exonerated Detective Alive” had a certain ring to it. Their mother would like it, at least. He passed over a cup, then waited.

Sherlock winced when the hot tea touched a raw spot on his lip, then swallowed. “Do it.”

John Watson’s chair was a little low for his tastes, but Mycroft settled into it nonetheless and took stock of his brother. The smell was gone thanks to a thorough bathing while unconscious-- Mycroft had stepped from the room during that particular indignity. His hair was still a mess, however, although it looked like the least insulted nurse had taken the liberty of giving him a much-needed shave. Sherlock was drinking his tea as if he hadn’t had a cup in years, and, Mycroft supposed, that was probably true. A decent cup, anyway. Bruising was evident on his face and neck and the bandages at his wrist were a stark white against the navy blue jumper they had dressed him in. 

Sherlock’s hands were shaking. The flat wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. Mycroft set down his tea and built a fire, waiting until it had caught well before standing and retrieving his brother’s empty cup for a refill. When he returned from the kitchen he was greeted by a soft snore.

The angle of Sherlock’s neck looked like it would grow uncomfortable, but instead of waking him Mycroft simply draped a blanket over his lap and returned to the kitchen. Setting his laptop and phone on the table Mycroft proceeded to get back up to speed on the state of the word. 

The rest of the day had gone by quickly and slowly at the same time. Quickly when he’d had his head buried in work and Sherlock and been asleep. Slowly when Sherlock had picked at his food, refused to go to bed and flopped down on the sofa instead, insulted the brand new tablet Anthea had sent along, then watched the BBC World Service in a variety of languages before falling asleep again.

The flat was quiet now. Mycroft had heated dinner, practically force fed and medicated his brother, then sent him to bed despite it being barely eight o’clock. It was now well after ten and Mycroft had wrapped up on his emails for the day. He’d finally taken a shower of his own and changed from his ridiculous disguise into one of his own suits. A more comfortable armour in which to face the world. 

Contemplatively, Mycroft smoked a cigarette in the front room and watched the traffic on Baker Street. He could feel his own crash approaching. If he didn’t fancy the sofa, perhaps he’d have to see if the upstairs bedroom was still furnished. A faint sound in the darkness had him stubbing out his cigarette and quietly making his way down the hallway. The sound came again: a groan, then something more akin to a whimper. Mycroft took a breath to steady himself, then opened the bedroom door.

It was a nightmare, clearly. “Sherlock?” The other man didn’t wake, but groaned again, whether at something in the dream or in pain, Mycroft couldn’t tell.

Afraid of being struck, he climbed onto the empty side of the bed and placed a hand carefully on his brother’s shoulder, “You’re home, Sherlock. Home. It’s safe.”

The detective didn’t seem to be gaining a greater measure of consciousness, but either the words or the touch seemed to make a difference as he began to settle under Mycroft’s hand.

“You’re safe, Sherlock. It’s over.” Over. He could still scarcely believe the unpleasantness with Moriarty was over himself. When he tried to pull his hand away Sherlock gave a little whine. Oh. This was awkward and his brother would probably have some snappish comment if he woke up, but it wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar position. 

Mycroft twisted to settle against the headboard, maintaining a gently stroking over his brother’s shoulder all the while. Muffled noises were just audible from the alley outside the window. A siren approached, then receded. He let his eyes close.


	2. Answers

“Tell me why we’re doing this again?”

“You said you wanted them.”

“I changed my mind.” John shook his head as the car stopped at a light and added, “That was the beer talking.”

“Yeah, well, we’re almost there now.” Greg Lestrade glanced over at the man in the passenger seat of his panda, then back at the road. “We didn’t drink enough for that, anyway. At least I’d better not have, seeing as I’m driving.” The light changed and they were moving again, splashing through puddles as they drove west.

John harrumphed. He hadn’t been back to Baker Street since moving out; had, in fact, only met Mrs. Hudson twice. Both times at cafes instead of the flat. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see her either, but it was already after midnight so perhaps he could just creep in, grab his books, and leave without waking her. Actually… “Forget it. We’ll wake Mrs. Hudson. She’s liable to think we’re a burglar.”

The D.I. shook his head without taking his eyes from the road. “She’s at her sister’s.”

John blinked in surprise and twisted to look at the others man’s profile as he asked, “How could you possibly know that?”

Attention on turning a corner, Lestrade absently replied, “I check in from time to time. Mycroft asked me to, but I don’t mind. She was always nice.” Safely around, he glanced over and noted from the set of John’s jaw that Mycroft Holmes was not a welcome subject of conversation. He resolved to shut up until they arrived. The books, truly, were not that important, but he thought it would do John good to see the flat. Over dinner and a drink earlier John had essentially settled on moving up to Leeds. Ostensibly, the job at a teaching hospital was better than his current position, but Lestrade suspected it was more John had given up on London. There were times when it felt almost haunted; he couldn’t imagine what the city felt like to John.

When they pulled up to 221B Lestrade didn’t comment on the fact that John still had his key. They opened the front door and closed it gently behind themselves, despite the fact that the building was quiet and empty. John only paused momentarily at the foot of the staircase before clenching his left hand into a fist and determinedly climbing the stairs. Greg glanced towards Mrs. Hudson’s to confirm it indeed looked closed and empty, then followed the other man.

As Greg reached the landing his D.I. nerves jangled as the scent of cigarette smoke tickled his nose. He lightened his tread to keep the stairs from creaking as he caught up with John and whispered, “Should anyone else have a key?” John seemed to have frozen at the top of the stairs, so Greg gave his shoulder a gentle shake. It seemed to break the other man out of whatever had made him freeze, because he took one step to the side so Greg could see past.

There was a lamp on in the front room, somewhere out of sight around the corner. How they had missed the light in the window when they had first arrived was beyond him. When Greg looked into the shadows in the front hall he felt something clench hard in his chest. There was a coat hanging on the hook by the door. Heavy, long, you’d have to be a tall man for it to fit.

With a jerk, John moved forwards and grabbed a sleeve of the coat, pulling it out into the light. Grey. Brass buttons. The sort of thing referred to as a greatcoat. Not Sherlock’s at all. From what he could see of John’s face, Greg knew he’d thought the same thing.

John rubbed the material between his fingers and waited for his heart to slow down. For a moment, with the low light, he’d let himself think that just maybe this was his miracle. How bloody stupid could you be? He motioned back to Greg that he was fine and took a careful step into the front room. The cigarette smoke was stronger there, but he couldn’t sense another individual in the flat. The remains of a fire sat the hearth. John glanced down at the side table and froze: there was a gun. He quickly glanced back at the D.I. and pointed, saw Greg’s lips thin in response.

The flat was still silent, so John crept closer. A pistol, yes, but a Zastava? It didn’t make sense. He glanced into the kitchen and paused again. There was a laptop open on the table, a phone beside it, and plates sitting in the drying rack. A burglar who did the washing up? 

Greg looked into the kitchen as well and raised an eyebrow at the other man in response. 

John shrugged back, then crept into the kitchen, avoiding the floorboards he knew to creak. A tentative prod of the keyboard brought up a login screen that didn’t specify a username. The phone, similarly, betrayed nothing about its owner.

Greg crept into the kitchen as well, not quite as successful at avoiding the creaks. They had two options: leave and try to keep surveillance on the flat from the outside until someone arrived or left, or continue to search. He gave a little shrug to signal to the doctor that he was ready for either option. A squaring of shoulders in return clearly signalled the next step, however spectacularly stupid it may be.

There hadn’t been any noise from upstairs, so John collected the claw hammer that was still stowed beside the salad spinner and made his way towards the master bedroom. The door wasn’t quite closed so John reached out with his free hand and slowly eased it further open.

With just the weak light from the hall it took a moment for John’s eyes to adjust enough to make out the near side of the bed and… Mycroft? Stretched out, sound asleep, and somewhat crowded towards the top of the bed as if he’d fallen asleep against the headboard and then wormed his way down as he slept. Then John’s vision accommodated further and he thought he was going to be sick: not only was Mycroft Holmes asleep in the bed, but there was someone there with him. The purported politician’s hand was buried in what looked like a thick head of hair: short for a woman, but long for a man. The rest of the companion’s body was lost in the darkness.

John breathed quickly through his nose and considered what he’d found. Mycroft wasn’t just using 221B as some sort of spy bolt hole, but using Sherlock’s own bed… the huffed breath wasn’t enough-- he spun around and pushed past the D.I., hurrying to stand over the kitchen sink.

“What the Hell?” Greg murmured to himself. There didn’t seem to be danger, but it was against his better judgement that he crossed the threshold of the room and waited for his own eyes to adjust. Oh. _Oh_. Mycroft and… He’d always had good night vision, so he waited, trying to be quiet, and the form on the far side of the bed slowly became more clear. Long, lanky, even. Clearly male, but familiar… Cursing, he reached out and switched on the light. Neither figure on the bed stirred, but Greg just about fell over. This, he thought, is what a heart attack must feel like: the surprise at the beginning before it starts to hurt and you keel over. It was impossible, but it was right there in front of him.

It took a few seconds to be capable of motion again, then Greg marched back down the hall and into the kitchen. In a voice that didn’t sound like his own, Greg said, “It’s Sherlock.”

“What?” John looked bewildered at the pronouncement.

Jerking his chin back towards the bedroom, he repeated, “It’s Sherlock.”

John did twist, then, and vomited straight into the sink.

Greg winced, and waited until it looked like he’d finished. 

Grimacing and spitting, John’s heaving finally stopped and he ran the tap to rinse out his mouth. Aware the other man was observing him closely, he watched the water running down the drain as he attempted to gather his thoughts. Finally glancing up, the look on the D.I.’s face made a lump swell in his throat. 

Greg was hovering just inside the doorway, somehow looking deflated and elated at the same time. The furrow that had entrenched itself on his brow after Sherlock’s suicide was still there, but there was the faintest hint of a relieved grin starting as well.

John wasn’t even aware he’d tried to say something until Greg nodded again and said, “Really. In the flesh. He looks like he’s been worked over too.”

Worked over? That was enough to let John get his shaking legs in motion and go back down the hallway. Even with the lamp on, both brothers remained asleep. There were too many emotions for John to name: he was furious, almost shaking with it, yet couldn’t help but feel a shred of hope as well. As he took stock of the detective the fury abated somewhat: matted hair, bruises, bandaged wrists peeking out from his sleeves, and a gauntness to what little of his form could be seen. Worked over indeed. Whatever Sherlock had been doing in the last two years didn’t look pleasant. There would be time later, he decided, for yelling. Now, he switched the lamp back off and returned to the kitchen. 

John hadn’t missed the attache case set on the floor beside the kitchen table. As he roughly pulled it onto the table Greg held up a forestalling hand, “What are you doing?”

“Getting answers.” There wasn’t much in the case, but there were a few folders. Opening the first revealed medical notes in both German and English, the latter appearing to be a translation of the former. They were from the previous morning, and as John skimmed down them he realised “worked over” was an understatement. Sherlock had been tortured. Deliberately, and for some time. In Germany, or… the Zastava, he realised, was the answer to that. So, Sherlock had been tortured in Eastern Europe, and from the cleanliness of the greatcoat hanging in the hallway and the polished boots abandoned in the front room Mycroft himself had some hand in getting him out. So far, so obvious. What he still didn’t understand, was why.

Catching the inquisitive look on the D.I.’s face, John passed over the medical records. From the resultant thinning of Lestrade’s lips he was drawing the same conclusions as he read. John rummaged further in the bag, but only found a few papers that appeared to be cyrillic along with a quantity of prescription medication with a blank space where the patient’s name was supposed to go. Charming.

Greg dropped the medical notes onto the table and shrugged, “Well?”

“There’s nothing else.” It was after one in the morning, but neither of them were required to be working the next day. “I think there’s still some scotch…” Ridiculously sentimental, but he’d left it in the cabinet when he moved out. Not wanting anything of “theirs” following him to his new flat.

Greg scrubbed a hand over his short cropped hair. “Please.” So they sat in the front room, John in his chair and Lestrade opposite, and drank. They were each lost to their own thoughts for a while, then gradually started piecing it together when the D.I. tentatively asked, “He hid everything from you? All the planning?”

“Yeah. He… he managed to get me angry enough to leave him. I called him a machine, actually, then he must’ve gone up on the roof.” You machine. Those words had bothered him for a long time. Still bothered him. “I think he really jumped… but I didn’t exactly see him land. I have no idea how he fixed it. I took his pulse, Greg, and there was nothing there.” The memory surfaced of the detective absently bouncing a squash ball against a cabinet and John closed his eyes. Oh, you complete and utter cock. 

“What?”

Weakly, John shared his dawning realization, “He had a squash ball; he even played with it in front of me. We used to trick each other as medical students: if you put it in your armpit and clench hard against your brachial artery you actually can cut off your pulse.”

“So he could have been alive on the pavement?”

“He was covered in blood…” The phone conversation he’d both relived every day and tried to forget come rushing back and John whispered, “He told me it was a magic trick. He _told_ me that, Greg. I thought he meant his deductions, all of that, but maybe he was trying to tell me something else.”

Greg took a large sip of his scotch instead of replying, focusing on the burn of the drink rather than the total fucking mess that his friend was describing. Eventually, he realised, “He’d have needed help. Real help. His brother for sure, but Molly Hooper did the autopsy, didn’t she?”

John took a gulp of his own drink, then coughed sharply. Molly Hooper. That she knew and he did not… A floorboard creaked in the hallway. John took another swallow of his drink, for courage, and said, loudly, “Why don’t you come in and join us, Mycroft? Much as you prefer skulking around in the shadows.”

Another board creaked and Mycroft stepped into the front room, the normal silkiness of his voice roughened by sleep, “I don’t skulk.”

“Sure you do.” John took another swallow, “You’re all warehouses at midnight and dimly lit private clubs and lies.”

Mycroft hadn’t bothered to put on his jacket again and his waistcoat was rumpled, his hair wasn’t lying properly and there were bags under his eyes that would take a proper rest to recede-- he didn’t look like his normally unruffled self. Heaving a sigh as if put upon, Mycroft swept into the kitchen and returned with a glass. Drawing up the chair usually reserved for clients, he sat down and held out the glass. “Surely I’m allowed something to soothe the inquisition?”

The D.I.’s eyebrows crawled towards the hairline and he gave a snort at the Holmesian ability to always push the line. Fortunately for Mycroft, the bottle was closer to Greg, who was more willing to grudgingly pour him a drink. 

He took a sip, resolving to supply Baker Street with better scotch as he did so, then swallowed and regarded the two men. “So?”

John’s left eye twitched, alarmingly, and every question he’d intended to ask was forgotten as he thundered, “Jesus Christ, Mycroft, you were trying to help me because you knew he was alive!”

Reproachfully, the elder Holmes replied, “I’d have tried to help you regardless, John.”

While truthful, it was not the right thing to say. As John’s face turned from red to white with fury, Greg quickly stepped in, “You were in on it, and Molly Hooper. Who else?”

“Several members of Sherlock’s homeless network and a professional stunt coordinator.”

Greg groaned, then held out a hand. It didn’t take a masterful deduction to realise what was being asked. Mycroft shuffled in his chair and pulled a slightly crumpled package of cigarettes, withdrawing and lighting one for himself before passing the package and lighter over. Greg took a long drag then, because it was clear John was still too upset to speak, continued, “And why, exactly, did Sherlock fake his own death?”

Mycroft tilted his cigarette up and shrugged, “I hardly think it’s my place to…”

“No,” John found his voice and cut off the other man, “You chose to get involved. You can bloody well tell us why he did it.”

Mycroft took a contemplative drag on his cigarette, grimaced, and blew smoke towards the window. “Moriarty’s network was vast.” Greg shifted in his chair, sitting straighter in surprise and interest, “I fed him information about my brother. In turn, Moriarty gave us hints-- just hints-- as to the extent of his network. We had to let him go. So we did, and we waited.” 

Mycroft took another drag, absently blew a ring, then exhaled the rest of the smoke hard and continued, “It was important to let him believe he had the upper hand, even as my brother’s reputation was destroyed. We knew that the moment of victory would be when he’d show his hand. We picked the location-- there were thirteen scenarios for what would happen on that roof, but we’d underestimated the lengths Moriarty was willing to go to. So Lazarus was put into effect. The thirteenth scenario. And Sherlock had to dismantle the network himself: dead and discredited.” Mycroft reached out and flicked ash into an empty mug rather than the carpet.

“You still,” John hissed, cold and deadly, “haven’t told us why.”

“A simple enough reason: for you. Both of you.” Mycroft let that sink in for a second, before adding, “And Mrs. Hudson.”

As John’s face had gone funny, Greg stepped in again, “That’s going to take some more explanation.”

“Moriarty promised my brother that he’d burn the heart out of Sherlock. He had three killers: one for John, one for you, and one for Mrs. Hudson. They were close, ready to strike, and once Moriarty shot himself the only way to call them off was for Sherlock to jump.” Mycroft relaxed his facade ever so slightly and shrugged, “And once he jumped, once he was dead, it still wasn’t over: the network remained. We were under no illusions as to how deadly it was. If there had been any hint that Sherlock was alive, all your lives were forfeit.” Stubbing out his spent cigarette, Mycroft leaned forwards in his chair, holding the attention of the others, “So you had to mourn. And you had to mean it.” 

There was so much running through John’s head it felt more like a rushing in his ears than actual thoughts. He realized his hands were shaking and managed to will them to be still before anchoring on the next most pressing question. “Two years, Mycroft. Two bloody years you lied to us. Just one word. _One word_ , and...” 

Mycroft Holmes rarely looked disconcerted, but a distinct air of it came over him as he confessed, “We had not anticipated it taking quite that long.”

Greg set his glass down with a clunk, drawing attention to himself. “So what happened?”

“Sherlock took on the world. He tracked them down, one by one, always careful to cover his tracks. I supported as best as I could, but that level of care made things take a long time. Then, two months ago, just when it look like it was nearly over, I lost him.”

“What do you mean you lost him?”

Mycroft twitched as if he wished he had another cigarette in hand. “We had carefully crafted aliases. The paperwork was perfect. Coded check-ins that wouldn’t arouse suspicions. The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle. It was sentiment, Dr. Watson.”

“What do you mean?”

“It has clouded the judgement of finer agents than my brother.” Even his own, once, if he was honest. “So close to being done… he acted imprudently. And was captured and moved to a secure facility. It took me several weeks to find him, and then I had to work out an avenue to remove him without international incident.”

“You went yourself?”

A visible shudder in return was confirmation enough. “Suffice it to say that ‘under cover’ is not my preferred modus operandi, but needs must.” The noise. The _people_.

Greg cleared his throat, “He was tortured?”

Mycroft lips thinned and he gave a short nod.

The medical notes had said as much. John ran through the points in his mind and felt his blood pressure rise all over again, “He should be in hospital!”

Brushing an invisible speck of dirt from his waistcoat, Mycroft sniffed. “You try telling him that.”

It was a stalemate then. John didn’t like anything he’d heard, and was still bitterly angry, but taking it out on Mycroft wasn’t going to make him feel any better. In the absence of any better course of action he gathered their glasses and poured another round. The only thing to do was wait for Sherlock to wake up.


	3. Reunions

Dawn was beginning to lighten the windows in the front room, but it was still far too early to be up. Head thrown back, a snore erupted from Greg’s throat. The D.I. was sprawled in Sherlock’s chair, legs kicked out and arms crossed over his chest as he slept.

There was an answering softer snore from across the room. Mycroft had retreated to the sofa and was stretched out with his legs awkwardly over the armrest. The purported minor governmental official looked even more rumpled than he had earlier in the night. The cuff of a sleeve was unbuttoned and one trouser leg was rucked up, revealing a drooping sock and several inches of pale calf.

From his own chair John shifted and blinked, not quite sure why he’d woken. He recalled that his head had been swimming slightly when Mycroft had lurched off to the sofa to sleep, but it felt like he’d sobered up in the intervening few hours of restless dozing. Greg gave another snore which was echoed more softly by Mycroft. Twisting into a more comfortable position, John was about to settle back to sleep when he heard it: a noise from the bedroom down the hall.

In the otherwise quiet flat the familiar hiss and groan of the pipes running in the bathroom was just audible in the front room. John’s mouth went dry. Sherlock. He scrubbed a hand over his hair, attempting to flatten it as best as he could, then stood and tried to will his suddenly thumping heart to slow down. The hallway had never felt longer as John limped down it. Gently pushing open the door he felt suddenly short of breath at the sight of the figure on the far side of the bed, “You’re up.”

Sherlock grimaced in pain as he lowered himself back on his pillows, “Technically, I’m back down.” His voice was rough, apparently as sore as the rest of him.

John felt as if he was stuck in place, only able to watch. He didn’t like what he saw. Sherlock was far too thin, gaunt, even. The bandages at his wrists were thick and the corners of his eyes and brow were creased by lines of pain.

Sherlock groaned as he settled, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again and fixing his attention on the other man. He looked like he wanted to say something, but was either unsure or simply couldn’t quite get it out.

For his part, John wasn’t sure he could move without his knees buckling, so he simply waited.

Eventually, Sherlock abandoned whatever had been on his mind and stated, “You’ve been drinking.”

John snorted, “Of course I’ve been bloody well drinking. You’ve been dead for two years and then I find you in bed with your brother!”

Sherlock quickly glanced at the empty side of the bed, obviously deducing from the angle of the blankets and position of the pillow. “He’s still here?”

“Asleep on the sofa.”

“That’ll be hell on his back. He’s not used to anything but the best.”

“I gather he dragged you out of Serbia.”

“He also watched me being interrogated. I’m sure he got his little kicks out of that.”

And with that the brief moment of levity was gone. John clenched and unclenched his left fist and burst out, “Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell were you thinking? Two years. Two, bloody, years! You just about killed me, Sherlock. Some days I thought you may as well have!”

“I was trying to do the right thing.” Sherlock’s voice went from pointed to defensive in a moment. “You’ve always made it clear you find my ability spectacularly lacking in that regard.”

John scrubbed a hand over his face, the anger he’d been hanging on to earlier was threatening to evaporate. Sherlock’s breath caught for a second and he coughed, flinching in pain as he did so. It was enough for John to open the closet door and, sure enough, the ambulance kit they’d pilfered from Mycroft years ago was still there. Pulling out the stethoscope, John put it on and rounded the bed, motioning for the other man to sit up as he did so.

That Sherlock subjected without complaint told John volumes about how he was feeling. Pulling up the detective’s shirt John had to swallow, hard, at the criss-crossing bandages that were revealed. Finding a patch of bare skin on Sherlock’s back, John listened carefully to several deep breaths. Sherlock knew the routine without even being told: deep breaths, then a cough. Slight congestion, not too severe, but something to keep an eye on. The heartbeat was steady, even, and familiar.

Eventually, John realised he’d been listening for far longer than necessary. He pulled back, quickly, and tugged Sherlock’s shirt back down. Slightly flustered, he pulled off the stethoscope and took three short steps to perch on the edge of the bed in front of the detective.

Sherlock eased himself back against the headboard, wincing when his back came into contact with the carved wood. His eyes flicked over the doctor, deducing, and not liking what he saw. John looked, for lack of a better word, diminished. Older and somehow shrunken; not the confident man he’d left behind. _Caring_ , he thought, hardly an advantage. And yet…

The grey in John’s hair caught the light of the lamp as he sat, slightly hunched, on the edge of the bed.

Carefully, Sherlock slid a hand out until the tips of his fingers were just touching the tips of John’s on the duvet. John looked up, slowly, and there was a wetness in his eyes that made _sentiment_ blossom painfully in the detective’s chest. The words, unfamiliar words, came then and he whispered, “I’m sorry, John.” Every way he had imagined his triumphant homecoming was forgotten as he continued to repeat, “I’m sorry. I understand, now, I didn’t...” until his own vision blurred, wetly. Shuddering breaths that ached terribly followed, and for some reason his eyes kept leaking so he couldn’t see. It was hateful, to be so emotionally out of control, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. Stress, he assumed. 

“Hey.” John’s soft voice seemed to come from a long way away. 

Suddenly a pair of arms came around his shoulders and even through his running nose there was a strong scent of John’s shaving cream. Sherlock took a shuddering breath, drinking in the scent and feeling something that had tightened in his chest untwist.

“Shhh,” John hushed, “You’re home now.” He gave the too-thin shoulders another squeeze and repeated, “You’re home.”

With a gasp Sherlock pulled back, quickly wiping at his eyes and breaking John’s hold. When he felt under control again he looked up and found the doctor watching him, closely. They didn’t do this. Didn’t do _emotions_. That crisis of confidence years ago in Dartmoor had been perilously close to _feelings_. He’d made a point of trying to avoid them ever since.

The old John would have pulled back. Made some excuse and maybe even taken his leave. This John, instead, reached out and clasped Sherlock gently by the shoulder, thumb stroking down over a sharp clavicle as he said, softly, “I’m glad you’re back.”

That was better and worse all at once and Sherlock felt something welling up all over again. Jesus. Mycroft was going to have him committed to some home for the traumatized at this rate. He sniffed sharply and got himself under control, nodding, both in agreement and relief.

This wasn’t what they did, Sherlock thought, even as John gave his shoulder another reassuring squeeze. And most damning of all it was reassuring too. It wasn’t going to be the same, he realised. He’d thought he could plan it all and come back and they’d be running through familiar streets, the blood pumping through their veins, just the two of them against the world.

Mourning, he realized. This is what mourning feels like: the realization that it wasn’t going to be the same and that there was absolutely nothing you could do. Eventually, Sherlock managed to raise his gaze again to meet John’s and found more understanding than he’d have expected to see. Oh. 

It wasn’t going to be the same again, he realized, but maybe, just maybe, it could be better.


End file.
